Happily Ever After
by Potted Plant
Summary: Harry Potter did not expect to survive Voldemort; Severus Snape did not want to survive Voldemort. And yet... things hardly ever happen the way Harry expects or Snape wants, so why should it be any different this time?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any of this.   
  
Oh, well, I'm completely new to this, so duh... Feedback is much appreciated. English is not my first language; I do not have a beta reader, and I think I DO need one. So I am really sorry about the grammar and/or spelling mistakes, and corrections of these are greatly appreciated as well.   
  
WARNING: There are suicidal thoughts in this fic, so if you are averse to that, do not go on.  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Severus Snape opened his eyes just in time to watch the last moments of the battle against Voldemort from a most uncomfortable position on the cold stones of the Great Hall of Hogwarts. His eyes followed the Dark Lord's arm attentively as his former master lifted his wand, his ears anticipated the curse, his mind wished he could be the target of that beautiful green light that leaped hungrily at the intended victim, and his heart skipped a beat as one small figure came from nowhere and threw himself into the path of the Killing Curse.   
  
Wizards would theorize for years to come why the Killing Curse, when failing to reach the person it was aimed at, would rebound and turn on the caster instead. How, rather than merely reducing him to a shadow of his former self, as it had happened the first time around, it would strip the Dark Lord of the magical transformations he had undergone, dissecting him, transforming him into an older form of Tom Riddle and finally, irrevocably reducing him to a corpse.   
  
Severus Snape really only cared for the result and only inasmuch as it concerned his own future. His hands which he had unconsciously clenched into fists now fell back limply, and he felt strangely relaxed, as if he had been holding his breath for years and had finally been allowed to exhale. He realized at that point that someone had taken his Death Eater mask from his face. If not, he would have ripped it off himself now.   
  
His personal part in the charade had finally come to an end. He had not expected to live through this, but there he was. He had accepted to play his part as a spy as this would be the only chance to atone for his sins, to repent for the evil he had brought upon innocent people in his brief stunt as a Death Eater, but he had no illusions as to what he was. A tool for Dumbledore, a useful one, but also one that had finally fulfilled its purpose and outlived its usefulness. And now he was tired of being tortured by Voldemort, tired of being used by Dumbledore, tired of being an object for ridicule and contempt for the Death Eaters or the staff or members of the Order. There was no good or bad side, there was only evil and lesser evil, there were only shades of grey.   
  
He swallowed and absentmindedly noticed the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He remembered that he had taken out a fair lot of Death Eaters in this battle. Surprised at someone from their own midst turning against them, the Death Eaters had been sluggish to respond to this threat, and it had taken them time to subdue him, precious time that they had not been able to use against the Order.   
  
Severus Snape had finally been brought down by two Cruciatus curses, and a third Death Eater had cast a spell on him that had hit him with such a bone-crushing force that he had hardly felt hitting the wall. He was surprised for a moment that they had not taken the time to finish him off, but he figured that they had had more important things to do. It occurred to him that he might very well owe his life to the fact that once again a Potter had been more popular than him. He suppressed a giggle and briefly closed his eyes.   
  
Now the residual pain from the Cruciatus curses mingled with stabs of agony coming from his ribs, his left side and leg. For a brief moment, something tore at him from the inside, and he had to close his eyes as his breath became ragged and he heard his blood rush through the veins in his ears. But that moment passed, and then he noticed that around him, the frenzy of battle had subsided and left an almost eerie calm. Now the moans of the injured could be heard, ever so often drowned by an errant curse shouted either in desperation or in fury. Those last reminders of the fighting, too, became far and few between.   
  
Hints of a wistful smile made the corners of his mouth curl. They would round up their enemies, they would count their losses, they would celebrate their victory, quietly at first, then growing more confident, they would rebuild and live on.   
  
He, on the other hand, was tired, he wanted to be alone, and most of all he wanted to rest. Long, nimble fingers slowly, painfully found their way into the folds of the dark Death Eater robes, finally closing around the small potion vial, withdrawing it from its pocket and bringing it to his eyes. Strenghtening Potion. His teeth withdrew the stopper and his lips eagerly caught the fluid and it traced a burning path right down into his stomach. The pain receded, the control came back to his limbs, he could once again move and look around. The Death Eaters had left him conveniently close to one of the exits, and he would be able to leave without anyone noticing. He really did not want to give any Aurors the opportunity to hunt him down in the end.   
  
He stood up, swaying slightly, slowly regaining his footing, unsteady on his damaged leg. Noone took notice of him as he left the hall, staggering along the silent corridors. The walk seemed to take a long time. The castle was quiet around him, the only audible sound was his breathing that sounded louder and louder in his ears. The whole building seemed to be paralyzed by Voldemort's demise. Not even the ghosts disturbed his path that led him deeper and deeper into the bowels of the ancient building and to his retreat in the dungeons.   
  
Finally, he reached the portrait that opened to his private rooms. His eyes took in the view with wonderment, as if seeing it for the first time. It felt strangely anticlimatic to be back in his quarters, in the rooms he had left this morning, believing this day to be another day as the Potions Master of Hogwarts, as the spy, as the Death Eater, whatever was needed of him. In these quarters, the battle had not left any traces at all. In these quarters, it was hard to believe that this day would be marked down in the history books as the one when the Dark Lord finally met his end. He regretted for a moment that there was no time left to destroy what was his, to erase the signs of his life just as he wished he could erase the marks he had left on the lives of others.   
  
He walked across the room to his private potions cabinet, fumbled with the lock for a few moments, withdrew a vial, realizing that in all probability he soon would not be able to move any more, then settled down clumsily in his armchair in front of the grey ashes in the fireplace. He had lost his wand in the battle, but the fire would have done little to stop the cold that was slowly creeping into his limbs, nor would he have wanted it to. For the first time in oh so many years he felt something akin to peace. There was nothing that anyone could possibly want from him any more, and nothing that he could possibly want from anyone. Noone and nothing to disturb him. He felt almost elated as he raised the vial to his lips.   
  
Dreamless sleep. Indeed. The familiar taste caressed his mouth and the vial fell from his hand and darkness crept upon him and he embraced it with his heart and his mind and his soul.  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding World, opened his eyes to bright sunlight and a tray of food sitting at his bedside, just the way he had for the last two weeks. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched carefully before he propped himself up on his ellbows and gingerly maneuvered his legs until they dangled off the bed, then, finally, he pushed himself into a sitting position and proceeded to attack his breakfast. He did not feel particularly hungry, but it was obvious even to him that only his full cooperation would ever lead to his discharge from the Hospital Wing.  
  
Just as he drained the last drop of pumpkin juice from his goblet, he heard the sound of the door opening.  
  
"Harry! How are you today?"  
  
The smile on Remus Lupin's face hardly ever disappeared these days. In fact, there were smiles on almost everyone's faces, everyone that Harry got to see at least, as if they spent their days in perpetual celebration, as if the weight of worlds had been taken off their shoulders. It had occurred to Harry, one night when he had trouble sleeping, that a considerable weight had indeed been taken off his, but he certainly did not feel overly exuberant about it. Not when he had first woken up and most certainly not now. He let go a deep sigh.   
  
"Better than ever. I want to get out of here!"   
  
Remus smiled tolerantly. "In due time, Harry. Probably very soon."  
  
Harry did not care if he was whining to Remus, he was bored out of his mind in the Hospital Wing and wanted to leave, but Madam Pomfrey would not let him. His recovery from the effects of yet another killing curse was slow, as he had to admit to himself, but even the constant supply of books and visitors could not alleviate his feelings of restlessness and his overwhelming need to get away. Almost all other injured students or staff members had already left the Hospital Wing and were now in all likelihood enjoying their well-deserved summer break. The final battle had taken place two days before the Leaving Feast, and when Harry had first woken up the summer holidays had already started. Now, two weeks later, there was only one other resident in the Hospital Wing.  
  
Harry turned, and his gaze fell onto the silent figure in the adjacent bed. Every morning at precisely 11 o'clock, a healer from St. Mungo's came, waved his wand over the unmoving body while a magical quill made some entries on a scroll that had grown several feet in length over the last two weeks, then the healer would mutter some spells and leave an impressive row of potion vials on the nightstand that Madame Pomfrey managed to introduce to her patient's stomach by means that Harry refused to contemplate. His companion was certainly making less of a fuss in this state than he would if he was awake, and Harry could conveniently forget about his presence most of the time.  
  
"He still has not woken up", he commented to Remus, quite unnecessarily. Remus just nodded in acknowledgement, then his face grew more serious.   
  
"I've just been discussing your summer arrangements with Albus."   
  
Harry felt a sparkle of something stir inside his stomach, and he looked at Remus with renewed interest.  
  
"We would like you to spend the rest of your holidays with me in the cottage my parents left to me. It's in Devon, quite close to the sea and really lovely in summer, and you would have time to recover."  
  
Harry did not bother to argue about the last statement. He almost started to grin, but the expression on Remus' face stopped him. Remus should be smiling even more now, shouldn't he? Instead, he took another deep breath.  
  
"We have also decided that Severus would benefit from a change of environment as much as you. He will therefore stay at the cottage as well, and healers from St. Mungo's will continue his treatment there."  
  
Harry stared at Remus, mouth agape, unsure if he had not heard him correctly or if this was just some elaborate joke. But when Remus' face refused to split into a huge grin, when Remus still looked at him intently as if to gauge his reaction, Harry felt something inside of himself clench.   
  
"What? Spend my summer with Snape? You can't be serious! What's wrong with him, anyway?"  
  
Remus sighed.  
  
"I suppose nobody has told you about him, right?"  
  
"Told me what! Nobody has ever told me anything! Why hasn't he woken up by now? What's wrong?"  
  
It seemed to Harry as if weeks, even months of frustration poured into him all of a sudden, and part of him was surprised at his outburst, yet another part relished it. Remus gave him a penetrating glare.  
  
"He was injured severely during the battle. I found him in his rooms in the dungeons, doused with enough Dreamless Sleep Potion to take him out for days. We think he tried to commit suicide. The healers thought it best not to let him wake up until his injuries are fully healed, in the hope that he will cope better this way."  
  
That effectively shut Harry up. His fury vanished as quickly as it had come, and he could only stare at Remus. Snape had tried to kill himself. The thought was too frightening to dwell on it for long. His gaze was drawn back to the prone figure on the bed. There was nothing intimidating about Snape when he lay under the white sheets like that, Harry suddenly thought. Then he turned back to Remus.  
  
"But still... won't Snape hate being stuck with us for the summer?"  
  
If Remus was surprised at how easily Harry relented then he certainly did an impressive job of hiding it, apart from one slight twitch of an eyelid.   
  
"He needs someone to take care of him. And so do you, by the way."  
  
And Remus' voice had such a decisive ring to it that Harry knew it was futile to argue. 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own any of this.   
  
Chapter 2  
  
Voices. There were voices where there should not be any voices. This he knew, although he could not remember the reason why he knew. He was on a soft surface. His body felt heavy. His eyes refused to open.   
  
He was faintly surprised. He realized that he should be feeling something more than that. But he wasn't. Why? To no avail. The memories continued to slip out of the feeble grasp his mind had on them. His eyes remained shut, and darkness claimed him once again.  
  
------  
  
"Are you hungry?" Remus voice came dimly from the kitchen as Harry entered the cottage after yet another afternoon of flying.  
  
"Not particularly," Harry shouted in reply, then stormed up the stairs to his room where he carefully put his Firebolt away in his closet and sat down listlessly on the bed. At first, he had been glad to be out of the Hospital Wing, but now he thought that he had simply traded one cage for another. He had done his homework and read his schoolbooks, he had even reread his old schoolbooks and started on a few of Remus' DADA books, until he had realized that he had put the DA out of a job himself and that there would be preciously little need for extracurricular DADA knowledge during the next year.   
  
He had tried to go to Diagon Alley a few days after they had arrived at the cottage, but he had been recognized at once, and every quill thrust at him for him to sign something and every hand extended towards him for him to shake it had reminded him of what had been lost over those two years after the resurrection of Voldemort, and he had to turn around and walk back to the pub and stagger to the chimney in order to escape to his sanctuary because although he had defeated Voldemort he still had not been of age and he could not even bloody well apparate.   
  
Since then, he had never expressed any desire to leave the cottage again. Every day, he spent at least an hour on his broomstick, zooming upwards and downwards, practising Quidditch moves, and these were the only times when his heart felt not weighed down, when he thought about nothing but the subtle shifts of weight that would command his broomstick. There had been more than one snitch among the gifts sent to him by various grateful witches and wizards, and he was grateful for the practice he got.   
  
He had written letters to his friends at first, but they invariably ended up being short because he could not bring himself to write what he really felt because he had no explanation for his feelings, and finally he stopped, much to Hedwig's chagrin.   
  
Physically, Madame Pomfrey had pronounced him fully recovered. And he did feel completely restored, apart from the nightmares that made it impossible for him to sleep without the aid of potions. He had tried to do without for one night and had ended up swallowing a whole vial at four o'clock in the morning because he had feared that his screams would have even have managed to wake Snape up eventually. He had found little consolation in the fact that the harrowing, Voldemort-induced visions were gone, given that they had been replaced by dreams of death and torture that were just as realistic and vivid.   
  
Harry pushed himself off the bed, left the room and turned to go down the stairs and join Remus in the kitchen. Then he stopped, turned, walked back and opened the door of the room adjacent to his, taking just a peek inside.   
  
The sight that greeted him was unchanged. Under the white sheets, Snape lay as lifeless as ever.   
  
For some reason, it disturbed Harry greatly to see his Potions Master like this. Snape was supposed to sneer at people, to deduct points, to scowl during breakfast. Snape had been a continuous source of grief to Harry to the point that he had hated Snape after his fifth year, after... after Sirius. It had almost been enough to make him drop Potions altogether, which would have been a shame after the miracle of getting an O on the O.W.L.s. Harry still suspected Dumbledore guilty of manipulation in this. But over the sixth year, whatever feelings he might have harboured against Snape had dwindled to nothing against the pure and simple loathing he felt for Voldemort. After nights and nights of horrible visions Snape's Potions lessons had been comparatively harmless, and Harry had even had the impression that Snape had let up a bit on deducting points and ridiculing Gryffindors over the last months.   
  
Remus had asked him not to tell his friends about the reason for Snape's presence in the cottage, but even without this admonition Harry could never have brought himself to talk to anyone else about what Snape had tried to do because... because Snape was not weak. Mrs. Weasley had broken down and cried more than once, even Mad-Eye Moody of all people had been guilty of a tear or two, but Snape had always been... seemed... so unaffected by whatever Voldemort had thrown in their way. He was never overcome by grief, he was never hurt, Voldemort and his Death Eaters had no power over him. But this had been an illusion, hadn't it?  
  
It was very confusing, to say the least, and his thoughts had been drawn to the issue regularly those last few days.  
  
"Harry! Get down here at once and eat!"  
  
Harry groaned inwardly, took a step back, closed the door softly and turned back to the stairway. He had been delighted to spend more time with Remus, but Remus tried to be more of a parent and less of a friend. He did not exactly order Harry around, but he was less inclined to let Harry do what he wanted than Sirius might have been. Remus had been away for a few days during the full moon, and during that time Tonks had been around and had mostly left him alone, but Remus had been back for a few days now.   
  
Harry entered the living room where Dobby had set up dinner. The house elf had requested to join the two in their cottage, and not even Hermione could find any fault with the arrangement since Dobby still got paid. Harry was rather comfortable with the arrangement as he really appreciated Dobby's cooking, and although he had not been feeling particularly hungry those last weeks, the sight and the smell of that roasted chicken, the size just the right shade of brown, throning on the dinner table, still made his mouth water.   
  
They enjoyed the meal in silence, and after swallowing the last bit of his chocolate pudding, Remus lay down his spoon audibly and made Harry look up from his second helping of dessert.  
  
"I wanted to arrange a surprise party for your birthday next week, but I somehow have the feeling this would not have been such a good idea. So I'll simply ask you instead. What kind of birthday party would you like to have?"  
  
His birthday. This had always been such an unremarkable event at the Dursleys' that the question actually took Harry by surprise, and his spoon made erratic grooves in the pudding as he pondered the question. He did not really feel like celebrating anything, but the way Remus had looked at him lately, this would probably not be a good answer.   
  
"Something small? Could I invite the Weasleys, Hermione and Neville?"   
  
"Yes, of course. Something small, then. Dobby has volunteered to whip up something for dinner, and the Hogwarts house elves would be more than willing to help."  
  
"Yeah, that sounds great."  
  
"So... that leaves the question of whether there is something you would really like to have for your birthday."  
  
Sirius. Never to have known the Dursleys. Never to have had a lunatic Dark Lord intent on stripping off his skin. Harry gulped from the intensity of his feelings that accompanied his rebellious thoughts, the onslaught of emotions took him a little bit by surprise, but it abated quickly.  
  
"I don't know, I seem to have pretty much everything I need. A book perhaps?"  
  
"Harry."  
  
Harry flinched under Remus' gaze.  
  
"Moony?"  
  
"I don't know how to put this... I've tried to leave you alone those last two weeks because I thought that you needed some time to yourself. Now I wonder if this has been such a wise decision. I am a little bit worried about you."  
  
The answer came by reflex, without any conscious action of his brain Harry said what he had been repeating over and over to Madam Pomfrey, his visitors, anyone who had cared to hear it.  
  
"Don't worry, Moony, I'm fine."  
  
Remus refused to nod, smile and let it drop.   
  
"Have you written to Ron and Hermione? Have you answered their letters?"  
  
"No, not yet."  
  
"That's what you have been saying for the last week. What is wrong with you, Harry?"  
  
"I..."   
  
Harry paused. He was not fine, he supposed. Fine was different. Harry knew for certain that he did not want to disappoint Remus. For some reason, this was important to him, and for a moment he tried to search for an answer to that inside of himself. But he could no more voice his thoughts to Remus than to his friends in the letters, so he shrugged.   
  
"I don't know, Moony." 


End file.
